Endings
by Elaine5
Summary: Sequel to Unknown Territory


Disclaimer: The usual rules apply. I don't own. Don't sue me.

Author's Notes: This could be seen as a companion piece to "Unknown Territory", but it could probably stand alone on its own. It's more of a ficlet, told from Niles's POV.

To M: Because this is really what I mean to say.

Feedback: would be loved and appreciated. Send to solitudeperfection@yahoo.com.

Endings

by Elaine

I think I destroy everything I touch. If Midas turned everything he loved to inanimate gold, I turn it into something hateful, black: consuming.

I wasn't supposed to be like this. Your parents raise you to be well-adjusted, happy: contented. Not black molevance and anger. Not vitriolic. Not hateful.

At one time it was easy to easy to look in the mirror. To see a face I recognised: one I inhabited stare back at me. Not anymore. The face that stares back is a stranger. Uncompromising. Unknowing. Two eyes that blink in unison with mine, taunting me with their secrets and laying bare their isolation.

Frasier came over to visit yesterday. And I couldn't-wouldn't- talk. Just sat, nursing my drink until the bottle was gone and the glass sat in my hand. All clear cut and refined. A simplicity to the anger running through me.

I can't remember the glass breaking. I remember the sound, like the soft break of pebbles being washed back along the shore. There wasn't any pain. It's surprising. I was expecting that. When I opened my hand, blood seeped from my palm, making its journey known through all the lines and tributaries.

A piece of glass lay embedded and I winced as I pulled it out. I stared at it, seeing my lifeforce drip from the point. Like icicles melting. And I smiled at the imagery it brought forth. I wrapped it up in newspaper and reached for the icecubes. The coldness was more painful then the glass had been. Slowly, the bleeding stopped and I flexed my palm, looking at it as though it belonged to someone else. That the scar that ran across my palm wasn't really mine, just an image created by me in my anger.

I can't blame her. I've tried. But I can't. It was me. Me and my insecurities. Me jumping 5 fences when I couldn't even mount the horse. I remember our last meeting and the words that spilled out of me. All anger and hate. Bitterness dripped from my voice. I had no idea I could sound like that. It scared me. I never thought I would say things like that. Especially to Daphne. Pain surrounding my soul that I needed to protect and didn't know how to.

She hit me. Once. I never saw her hand moving until I felt the crack on my cheek and her eyes blazing with hatred. I reached up instinctively to touch my face until I realised that it was pointless. I could sense all her fingers impressed on me: white against red. She looked at me: stared. Hoping to find a part of me that still belonged to her. That still cared. I do. I think I always will. But instead I did what I do best. I raised all my barriers. I slid my psychiatric's mask into place and stared back impassively.

She left then, slamming the door behind her. A physical gesture to the hatred I felt for myself. I stood, alone, staring at the door registering nothing except the soft ticking noise of the chamber clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I could feel the tears building up, my throat closing off and the anger rising like a black storm. I whirled around, smelling cherry bark everywhere.

I can't remember moving. I know that I did. I have the scars to prove it. The dragon went first. Smashing on the floor in small, black obsidian pieces. Then the shelves went next. All my books lay on the floor, spines split and broken. I destroyed my room in less than an hour. I wish I could say I felt better. I didn't. I didn't know what I felt. Only that I wanted it to stop. That I wanted the blackness and the desolation to end.

That was 2 weeks ago. The scars keep reappearing, but they're hidden now. Tucked away under Armani suits and squash clothes. My forearms look like a strange modern art picture. Offshoot lines from one centre. All spiralling outwards towards something and nothing. I don't want anyone to see them. Especially not Dad and Frasier. I couldn't explain why. It would mean telling them about me and Daphne and I can't do that. I can't betray her confidence like that.

I saw Daphne again. She was sitting in Cafe Nervosa. Out of instinct I went to walk towards her. Until she turned and saw me. I would like to say she looked at me, but she didn't. Her eyes looked everywhere but at me. I stood, motionless, holding my coffee in my hand, wanting to go over and talk to her. But I couldn't. She turned back to her friend and I sat down in the nearest booth.

I could hear her talking. It's not hard to hear an English accent in a room full of American ones. She never mentioned me. Not once. I don't know whether to feel happy for her or not. Happy because she has seemed to put the sorry affair behind her, or angry because I meant so little to her. Or maybe I'm not the only one who slips the mask on when they're outside.

There are so many things I will never get the chance to say. So many things that I realised I wanted to say after the hatred had passed. To apologise. To tell her I'm sorry for what I said. For letting my anger get the better of me, for making her upset when I never wanted her to remember me like that.

I want to tell her that I'm still here and that I'm not going anywhere. That I miss our conversations, the easy relationship that we forged so quickly. That I'm here if she wishes to talk, or even if she doesn't. That I won't betray her, or the things that she told me.

But I won't get the chance. I know that. Everything is closed off now. And I don't blame her. I don't particularly like myself at the moment. I can hardly expect Daphne to like me. But I'll still be here, and I'll still smile at her and open the door for her. And I don't expect anything in return. Just that she'll keep opening the door and find me standing behind it. That I'm not leaving. Because I can't. Because I'm stronger than I ever believed possible.


End file.
